


I could see your heart through your eyes

by Mikaeru



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, blind!Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 14:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7761937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I would like to paint the way a bird sings,” Will quoted. He started to draw small circles on the back of Hannibal’s hand.<br/>“Claude Monet.”<br/>“You’re painting a song.”<br/>“A poem.”<br/>“About what?”<br/>“About someone would be the right question.”<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	I could see your heart through your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language and this is not beta-ed, so if you catch any mistake please let me know :3

“Did you bring me flowers, Will?”

He didn’t heard a sound, but he could smell the sun on his skin, the grass patches on his elbows and knees, his puffed light laugh – even that, in Will, had a specific perfume, like raspberry and smoked wood.

“I can never take you by surprise, can’t I?”

“On the contrary, my dear. This very act is a pleasant surprise. You certainly are not the romantic type.”

“I’m glad, then.”

Will went into the house, brought a vase and filled it with water; he put it on the table next to Hannibal, where watercolors and brushes were laying, resting, waiting, as if they were sunbathing on the white porch. Will seated next to his husband, taking his hand.

“Thank you, Will”, Hannibal smiled, “I bet you bring me the most beautiful flowers. Their scent is exquisite.”

Without a word, Will guided Hannibal’s hand on the red petals, let him feel their velvety texture, so delicate and fragile. Hannibal brushed them as he would touch a national treasure.

“Thank you so much, darling.”

“What were you painting?”, he looked at the canvas, the delicate blue and the pale red, almost a pink, the bright yellow and the soft green; it was so unlike Hannibal, his portfolio full to bursting with black and white drawings.

“Something from memory. From a dream, I think. It very unusual from me, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. It’s quite beautiful. It’s more like a… sensation, a feeling, than an actual situation, is it not?”

“You’re quite right, my love. I see my art lessons were worth their time.”

“ _I would like to paint the way a bird sings_ ,” Will quoted. He started to draw small circles on the back of Hannibal’s hand.

“Claude Monet.”

“You’re painting a song.”

“A poem.”

“About what?”

“About who would be the right question."

“And the right answer would be me, I suppose.”

“Maybe,” Hannibal cheekily replied, “You’re my most vivid and beloved memory, Will. Since I can’t see anything new, I can only place you in new forms. Will, my Will.”

Will kissed his husband’s wedding ring, the twin of his own, handmade in Florence.

“It’s quite beautiful, Hannibal.”

“Do you like it?”

“I really do. It’s astonishing how you still can do things like this in your state.”

Hannibal lost his eyesight in the fall. At first he saw everything blurry, and he assumed it was one of the side effects of being thrown from a cliff. But then, abruptly, he stopped to see. Somehow, he continued to draw and painting and hunting. It left Will speechless; but he already knew that, didn’t he? That Hannibal was more like a god than an human. A mystical creature, something you can’t quite define with mere and mortal words. Hannibal said that his hearing and sense of smell were now beyond excellent, as an excuse.

“I am a bit like Matt Murdock, am I not?”, Hannibal smiled gently, and Will snorted, “A daredevil.”

“I’d say just a devil. The devil.”

“That makes you the devil’s right hand.”

“I know.”

Will smiled. “Do you want me to leave you alone to finish your work?”

“I do not desire that. Can you describe me what do you see, please? The colors, the light. Don’t omit anything.”

“I’m not a poet like you, this would be very dull.”

“Please, my love. You’re everything but dull.”

“It is a very sunny day, but I suppose you knew that already,” Will chuckled, “and the sky is really blue, almost without a cloud. There’s a gentle light rolled up the cherry tree - do you want some cherries, Hannibal? They’re ripe.”

“Please.”

Will stood up and Hannibal already missed him. He visualized his husband on his toes, trying to reach some of the tallest branches, his stretched back, the lines of his t-shirt. He sniffed the air and found again his scent, now sweeter because of the cherries he was eating. “Are they good, Will?”

“Perfect.”

Hannibal pictured him calmly walking towards him, and that thought moved him. After all these years, after all that pain, Will was really his, and sometimes it was still hard to believe.

“What are you crying about?”

“You.”

“You always cry about me. I’m starting to guess if I’m good company,” Will teased, placing the cherries on the table.

“Sometimes I ask myself the same question.”

“And the answer is?”

“You know it.”

“It’s always good to hear.”

“I would be dead without you. Maybe my body would breath, but my spirit would be dead. I could not live after you, without you,” he searched for his husband’s hand and kissed his ring. Will smiled – Hannibal smelled it again – and feed him some cherries, the ripest ones.

“Are they good?”

“Perfect. You still have to describe me the landscape, Will. Talk me about the light in the trees.”

“It’s a bit like those painting in which God’s light penetrate the clouds – the rays are smaller, but not weaker. They make the cherries shine like rubies,” and he fed one to Hannibal, “and the leaves like emeralds. Sorry, they’re poor metaphors.”

“I like them. I like listening to you, my Will. You have a very beautiful voice. I must teach you to sing.”

“I know how to sing. A little.”

“And you were planning to tell me when?”

“Never.”

“You’re a demon.”

“I just sang myself to sleep when I was little,” Will shrugged, “and sometimes when I was fishing. Nothing serious.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to hear you. Please? For an old blind man.”

“You don’t get to use that card, Hannibal. You’re terrible.”

Hannibal just smiled, and Will sighed. He sang an old lullaby, something for a very far away past, an old life that Will didn’t really remember, he just felt, like a presence.

“Electric blue, peach, something brown,” Hannibal murmured.

“Mh?”

“I would like to paint your voice. It’s very beautiful. Delicate, but firm, like an antique vase older than the family that owns it. Would you be so kind to pass me my brushes? And pose for me, my darling. Sing for me again, please. Sing me what you see.”

And Will hummed a light tune the color of the leaves, and Hannibal wetted a brush, and it was perfect.


End file.
